


For the Love of God

by Arachneedle



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Altar Sex, Angry Sex, Blasphemy, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Hate-Fucking, M/M, Paganism, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Sacrilege, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arachneedle/pseuds/Arachneedle
Summary: Uhtred Ragnarsson never thought his king would bend over for him. But now his antics with Alfred of Wessex are becoming wilder and wilder, and as they get more and more entangled in hate-fucking, both of them wonder where this can lead...
Relationships: Alfred the Great & Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	For the Love of God

“Just touch me!  _ Please _ !”

I never thought I’d hear those words from the lips of my king. I say my king - I bow to no one. But this king, he is mine; I own him. Just listen to him - he says it himself, in the profanities he utters. He spits them, blood and bile fly from his lips. I am not a man to be disgusted by much, but even I should be disgusted by this. By him. What would Father Beocca say? I never really listened to the priest. What would Ragnar say? I don’t know if he is in Niflheim or Valhalla; he died burning in his bed. What would Brida say? She would laugh, then spit. I cannot feel so reckless and free. You see, I am bound irreparably to my king.

“Lie still,” he says, binding my wrists to the bedposts. This is third night - last time I humped him so raw he couldn’t walk. It seems he’s not taking any risks now; Alfred likes to put me in chains. These are mere rags, but it doesn’t matter. He has other ways of chaining me, he has done it before. My wife, her debt, the army, my oaths, my men. He binds me to the Saxon world with every breath, though I am half Dane in heart. Still, his cold, thin fingers take their time, and I thump my wrists like I’m kicking a horse, urging him to make haste. It is a dangerous game, this - we meet in a tavern, a lowly haunt, but I am not content with that. Ever since this sickening witchcraft came over me I have walked like a sceadugengan, stalking the night. I deserve better than this; I am Lord Uhtred now, an Ealdorman of Wessex, as well as of Northumbria, and Ragnar’s second son. Thoughts of my uncle draw me away, numbing all feeling.

Cold steel against my cheek. Alfred has his dagger out and, poor baby, he hardly knows how to use it. But I know better than to mock - he would slit my throat in a second if he felt like it. As a warrior, he is useless, but as a commander he is greater than any Saxon. His brains are the ones he should be worrying about, not mine. It is rare that my mind wanders; perhaps tonight is special. I feel the dull edge trace my cheek, but it’s not as dull as I think - one slip and stinging pain trickles down my face. Instinctively I jerk, and he pulls away. His white face is thin and measly and Saxon, yet savage. He bares his teeth and I am reminded of Brida, a shock that brings me back. That knife is drawn down my front, tearing my shirt, revealing Thor’s hammer.

“Heathen scum,” he hisses, and I buck up, grinning. It feels good to be exposed and Alfred can’t seem to look away. His dark eyes linger on the amulet - it’s not quite a cross, but close enough. Earlier, I watched him place his cross on one side; he thinks his god is always watching. If Beocca is to be believed, he’s right, and Alfred is damned - on my account. One of my bonds is loose, so I pull my arm free and shove the hammer into Alfred’s face, trying to get him to kiss it. He jerks away just in time and looks as if he drank goat piss. For the first time, I open my mouth.

“Kiss it,” I say, sitting up slowly. He’s like a little boy fed wine for the first time, the way he stares. It pleases me, to see him like this. But he wants it, I know it - he has told me so himself. One glare from those black, baleful eyes, and he’s leaning forward, teeth gritted, to do my will. His lips touch the cold metal, and maybe with his eyes closed he can almost pretend it’s a cross. Does it matter? I’ve never asked him. I don’t care much for his smelly god, but it pains him greatly. 

He kisses my chest and its hard muscles, then whispers, “You’ll pay for this.” I grunt with laughter. What can he do to me that he has not already done? I suppose it is less serious for me. Humping a man is not a crime in our world, though being humped is another matter. So in both worlds, Saxon and Dane, Alfred is committing the greater crime. I’ll never know what goes on inside that mind and I don’t want to. But maybe he hurts himself. So long as I die with a weapon in my hand, I’ll end up in Valhalla. The Gods don’t care about this; they might thank me, for subduing a Saxon king. But he’s not really subdued - Alfred is a grass-snake, like Brida used to catch. They are linked in my head, though by what, I don’t know. Both are dark, both are crafty. Alfred has something of the völva about him, in the way he takes cock. He does it now, moving down my trunk, taking me stiff into his mouth. He laps like a wench, his tongue still bloody, his lips pale and dry and rough on my skin. Maybe one of my hands is free, but I don’t dare push his head down. There are some things you cannot do to a king, even one you are fucking.

At some point, my tongue loosens. “Little bitch”, I call him. He gets up and off, looking as angry as he can, pale and black-eyed with vengeance. It tickles me in my groin that this is the face he makes when he wants me. He used to chase the palace maids, but I cannot imagine the smiling, giggling, seducing Alfred that fathered the bastard in my service. This Alfred is hard-edged as a knife, ripping off his cassock in digust, his dagger still gripped tight. He could garrott me if he wanted. That dims my fire. Now he turns around and I don’t know what he’s thinking. It is this bit that always sobers me - he is making himself vulnerable, he is changing, like a sceadugengan, like a völva. Oil and cold fingers between his cheeks, touching himself, his sack tight. It turns me on; he is good-looking, a king, it would do the same for any man. But still he does not face me when he climbs on top of me. I yank at my one restraint, but it does not yield. Perhaps he planned it this way, for me to be no more than half free, half fulfilled. The bastard has a mind that works like a bitch, and I cannot follow him. I want to climb him, to shove him down, but he makes me sit still and quiet while he hooks his leg over and settles on my cock as if he’s riding a horse. The king is not a good horseman, but he does this with confidence. It is his victory, his pride - he does not vanquish me entirely, but neither is he weakened completely. I have to console myself with the knowledge that I am still taking, otherwise my honour would be insulted.

“Uhtred of Bebbanburg,” he mutters, wincing as he moves up and down. My blood is pounding, the battle-lust is in me. I look to see where he put the knife, but it is far away and out of reach. A good thing - I might stab him if it were not so. No anger drives me, only need. I am a good warrior; the very best. I am used to taking my due once the battle is over, but Alfred does not let me take. To hear him say my name is a great thing, but to hear him scream would be even greater. His hand grabs my thigh, cold fingers that dig in. I slam my hips harder, though I am tired. He has outmanouevred me, again. When I come, my groan is one of pain.

The next night, I come to him. It is early, yet the stars are out. The fires burn low around Winchester, the watch are about, and I am a sceadugengan again. In the black, I am able to slip out of my room and find my way through the Palace. The courtyard is empty; my sword bumps against my thigh. I am no longer a boy, and my footsteps make a sound that dogs me. This is a risk - he will not want me in his room. If Aelswith was in Winchester I would not dare, but the she-wolf has gone on a pilgrimage and Alfred is alone. I do not intend to take him in their bed, however; another night, perhaps. Tonight I will have my way with him, whatever the cost.

There are guards in the corridor near his room. I cannot kill them, or harm them in anyway, for the risk is too great. Instead I slide between the pillars and round the back, to where the window is. Alfred will not be asleep - the light tells me that I am right. Within he kneels, a book before him. He is supplicating; he is shaking, what from I do not know. His cross shines bright, the one on his breast matching the altar. If he was praying for the kingdom, he would be in the chapel - this crime is one that he must hide, I see it in the flicker of his eyes. I watch, but I cannot wait. His time is up.

The candlelight is cold on my fingers as I grip the windowsill. His eyes remain closed; he is stubborn. I decide to give him a nudge. With careful aim, I throw bits of gravel at his head. Perhaps it is not the most sensitive tactic, but it works - his mouth twists and his eyes press tighter shut, but even he cannot hold out. Someday he will be a saint, though he has not the patience of one. As he shuffles round on his knees, our eyes lock. His fury is funny to me, though I have learned not to toy with it. No words pass between us, for we cannot wake the guard, but his eyes change and he gets slowly to his feet. Perhaps he has seen my intentions already; I think not, for he would not come so willingly. He knows I have a plan, or I would not be here.

There is a moment of nothing as he leaves his room, then he is before me. His beard clings tight to his jaw - he has lost weight, again. I do not know where he finds the strength to receive me; perhaps it is witchcraft. A bright moon looks down on us, I lead him through the dark palace. He follows me, I think he senses something is different. Maybe I am more sober than usual - tonight my blood is up, but I am calm. Alfred is wary, but he picks his way through the shadows until we reach the room I am seeking, the room I almost cannot find, so little have I been there. It is the main chapel, the pride of Wessex and Wintanceaster.

Alfred’s eyes are wide in the dark. I cannot tell if he understands, but I know he is surprised. He turns, delegating, and his gaze lands on me. I cannot help the twitch of a smile, pride in my success so far. Now he begins to suspect, for he frowns, but his jaw does not tick - not yet. I will make him rage, in due course. We open the big oak doors, and I relish their creak, my heart jumping.

All is shadow within. Alfred of Wessex beholds the altar, not quite lit by a ray of moonlight which misses it and skips down the steps. Now is my time; I step forward, and place my hands on his chest. My fingers find the laces of his tunic, and I begin to unthread them. His gaze starts to prickle, fixed on my face, but I have eyes only for his body. White skin covered in hair beneath harsh linen that is not so harsh as it looks - he is penitent, yet not, prouder than any. That is the secret to Alfred, the secret that I could have told at first glance, that his followers refuse to believe. Alfred is the proudest man in all Wessex, and for all his stooping and prostrating and humbling he kneels for no one, not even his God. That mind, ticking away behind closed eyes, is not thinking of the holy; always he is scheming, always he is thinking of himself, of glory. In that way, we are alike - we always come back to pride and honour and triumph and bloodlust. And now I am going try and humble him, once and for all, before his God, whatever the consequences.

His hand comes up to trap my own. I wonder when was the last time he was naked in a church; probably his christening, although maybe they take place outdoors. He does not seem to see this irony. “Uhtred,” he whispers, his voice rasping, hoarse. He will not raise his voice in a house of God - not yet.

“Take off your clothes,” I tell him, my voice even. I have given him orders before, though few, and it did not end well. He glares at me in blind hatred, and I have to take my hands off him. They fall by my sides, close to my sword but limp, leaving me open. If I am to take, I must give. I watch him blankly, making no attempt to hide my desires. His eyes are the colour of grave soil, scathing. Sceadugengan Alfred, king of Wessex, Ealdorman of Wintanceaster.

He moves, and white bone fingers draw back his tunic. I am unable to look away. His cassock slides from his thin shoulders, his sharp collarbone, and falls at his feet. Underneath, there is nothing. This is his night-shirt. I see that he takes off his cross too and reach out, but when I catch his hand he glares up at me with such poison I can’t go on. “Give me this,” he murmurs coldly. “There will be enough profanity tonight.”

Though he has checked me, I feel a swoop of elation. He understands me, then, and my plan. Since he has doffed his cross, I unbuckle my sword; an eye for an eye. My boots follow, my shirt and trousers. I can feel him looking at me, at Thor’s hammer. I kiss it, just to piss him off. His teeth grind so hard I can almost hear it. “Bastard whoreson,” he breathes, and I grin. The profanity has begun. We are not even humping yet.

I back him up against the altar, circling and herding him. He sees where we are going and breathes deep. It is almost a sigh, I think. Alfred is not resigned, he could not give in if he tried. He reaches for me and hooks his arm tight around my neck, and though he is not strong his grip is. I am reminded unpleasantly of the frog people of East Anglia, where Brida was born. That cursed girl and this cursed king; they are tied up together, two shadows. The white light falls on his white shoulder, his stranglehold keeping me where I stand. I think he knows now where this is going, but he will not give up. Just as the monks do during raids, he stands between me and the altar, as if that should stop me. Unlike the monks, he understands that that will not stop me in the end. What, then, makes him want my attack? He is no saint, no martyr; but he would be, if he could.

I take a step forward and our legs meet. Instinctively, he hooks his thigh around mine, and I am taken out for a second by the pleasure of his hardness, rubbing against my hip. “You cannot trap me with cheap tricks,” I tell him, to disguise my weakness. It is his turn to bear his teeth in a savage grin.

“It worked before,” he grunts, and now his other leg is around my waist and I stagger, trying to support his weight. A man a few years older than me is no light thing, though he may eat milk and leeks and puke up half his bodyweight every day. My heart pounds and I lurch forwards, his face now next to mine, his hot breath on my cheek, his skull pressed to my skull. “It worked before,” he breathes again, his soft, brittle hair falling into my eyes, his nose in my thicker, rougher locks. We are grinding against each other, humping clumsily, fighting. I push on, triumph in sight. His breath hitches, our combined coldness turning to combined heat, and now I hear the crash as we reach the altar itself.

The noise is loud enough to wake the dead. I freeze, at his insistence. The silverware rolls around on the cloth, and I am tempted to turn it into a bundle and take it with me when I am inevitably banished from Wessex. But Alfred melts faster than me, his teeth buried in my neck, and snarls, “Isn’t this what you wanted? The whole of Wessex on our heels?” And now I know how badly he wants it, for he throbs against me, hot and hard, rutting on my thigh like a whore. There is no need to think - I throw him down on the rich cloth, brushing the candlesticks aside and getting tangled in the fabric. Alfred is beneath me on the altar of his God, and all is right in the world. I slick him up with spit, tugging on his cock with my hand, listening to him pant and groan. His blood is up more than mine tonight, this is what he has wanted; total sin, original sin. I don’t know his Book, but if original sin is real then it is this. My hand fondles his balls, tugging hard, and I reach down to open him up. He stops me, his eyes wide.

“Oil.” My mind is so full of fucking that I can’t understand him. He slaps my hand away, sitting up and casting about. My thoughts catch up with his, and I turn around to see him staring at the pot of oil they keep in here. It is rich, infused with some strong-smelling Southern substance. I reach back, and it swings towards me, hanging by a silver chain. I turn around, and Alfred’s face is a death mask. His hatred is strong, and for a moment I have misgivings. How far is too far, for this pious, sacreligious man? I don’t know. He spreads his legs in silence, and I have my answer.

My hand drips oil onto the altarcloth. I fuck him impatiently with my fingers, but it is cold and he takes ages to open up. All the time I hear him hissing through his teeth, his cock going limp and hard and limp again. I give it a bit of encouragement with my hand and he gasps, his legs shaking. I cannot believe he is already close without me inside him. I cannot deny that I am in a similar state; my hardness trembles like a wet wench against my thigh.

At last he is ready. I take myself in my hand and push in, the slide slick and tight, my mind going blank. Unthinking, I run my hands over his chest, and he returns the gesture but digs his nails in, yanking at Thor’s hammer. I cannot stop him taking it - my reflexes are slow, all of a sudden I feel dangerously weak. To remind him of my power, I pull back out, then snap my hips forward, remembering where we are. The silver jingles on the floor, only slightly muffled by the cloth, and Alfred’s gasp turns into a cry. He closes his eyes slightly, the lids flickering as when he prayed, but this time in tranquillity instead of thought. My hands grip his hips, my mind empty of everything but him. The cold air tries to cool my fire, but this desire only burns brighter with every thrust. The king’s legs are wrapped round my waist, his feet slap at my back, cold and long and thin like all of him, all except this tight crevice that only I can plunder. I slam him harder, the table beneath us moving rhythmically, scraping the stone floor, the silver clashing, the cloth thumping, Alfred grunting, skin slapping. I begin to choke him and he gasps, hissing profanities, cursing me and my line. I should fear a king’s curses, and a sceadugengan’s, but instead I only fuck him harder, saving that fear for later.

There is a point where he cannot hold back his noises anymore. Now he is shouting, rasping my name, and I am roaring, though I don’t know what. I lose track of time, of reality - the cool moonlight seems to burn, flames rage around us. I feel him grip me suddenly, everything faster. Need takes over, and the wet splatter on my chest echoes the pulsing of my flesh as I spill inside of him, onto the altarcloth. After that, there are no more words. We are entwined, shackled to each other, unmoving. I feel as if a great weight pressed me, but there is a light behind my eyes, unsteady like the moon. I have defiled my king; I have served myself, and the Gods. Afterwards, Alfred vomits loudly into the courtyard.

Other nights like this follow. In the daytime, we are ourselves - at night, we become dreams. My flesh does not quiver so well, nor hurt so much, as when we fuck on the altar, but Alfred punishes me thousandfold for that. The only time we come close to that weak bliss is in his marriagebed, the night before the Lady Aelswith returns. It is there that I humble him the most, and feel the greatest triumph. My king is a proud man but even proud men must serve. When I ride him at night, he is mine, ferocious and tamed. I have brought all Wessex to its knees, and the Danes shall never know it.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: thank you for all the kudos and comments so far, I'm surprised and pleased by the influx of love so soon after publishing 🥰 Y'all are thirsty and I provide water 😇
> 
> (when I was putting the tags on this I saw one of the existing ships is aethelfled/Alfred. 👀 Who did this...😫)


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